Shades of Milk and Honey Read online

  The sudden relief that flooded through Jane swept her legs out from under her. She dropped to her knees in the grass. Mr. Vincent sat up, staring at Beth’s bloody dress, and asked, “Miss Dunkirk! What has happened? Are you injured?”

  Half laughing and half sobbing, Beth explained to him what had occurred since the darkness lifted. Jane, feeling as if she were in a cocoon far removed from the action around her, watched his rugged face bleach paler than she thought possible. Mr. Vincent turned his head sharply and saw Jane kneeling in the grass.

  Surging to his feet, Mr. Vincent crossed the grass and dropped to his knees in front of Jane, pulling her into an embrace. Stroking her hair and rocking her in his arms, he murmured, “You are safe. Praise God, you are safe.”

  Jane clung to him, weeping.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I thought to lift the darkness only long enough to see if you were safe; your voice sounded wrong. But I underestimated my fatigue and lost control of the threads.”

  Jane shook her head, which was buried in his coat. “My fault.”

  “No.” He lifted her head and tilted it back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You know full well that of all the participants, you are the least to blame.”

  Under his gaze, which seemed to see through every layer to her soul, Jane’s heartbeat thundered through her and grew louder, until it merged with the sound of her family’s carriage. As her father rode across the grass towards them, Mr. Vincent released her. Jane wanted nothing more than to sink back into his embrace, but he helped her to rise, then stood at a proper distance from her. He became the model of propriety when she least wanted it.

  Mr. Ellsworth swung down from his horse. “Jane!”

  In the distance, Mrs. Ellsworth cried aloud, declaiming the horror of the scene, though she could not properly know what had happened. Melody caught sight of Captain Livingston as his prone body was lifted into Lady FitzCameron’s carriage. Screaming in terror, she ran toward him.

  Mr. Vincent grimaced. “I believe Miss Melody needs your attention, sir.”

  In unison, Jane and her father ran across the field to restrain Melody. Jane looked back once. Mr. Vincent stood where she had left him, his gaze still fastened on her.

  She fondly wished to turn back, but Melody needed all her attention. Incoherent with grief and rage, her sister flung herself at the Viscountess’s carriage. “Henry!”

  Mr. Ellsworth, running ahead of Jane, caught Melody by the waist and turned her about. She screamed, “He’s dead! My love is dead!”

  Jane led them toward their carriage as Melody craned her neck, trying to see behind her. “Calm yourself, Melody. He is not dead. It is only a blow to the head.”

  Not heeding her sister, Melody continued trying to get out of Mr. Ellsworth’s arms, but he held fast. Together, he and Jane managed to get her back into their carriage.

  Jane’s mother, to Jane’s great surprize, calmed herself and set about tending Melody.

  She patted Melody’s wrists and temples with rosewater, her movements surer and more capable than Jane could remember. Mrs. Ellsworth only spared Jane a glance. “Tell your father to take us home.”

  Jane did not need a second urging.

  For the ride back to Long Parkmead, Melody filled the carriage with her upset, declaring her wrongs to all who listened. Jane spoke only once, when Melody said, “This is your fault!”

  Jane did not turn her gaze from the countryside that passed them by, but said simply, “I know.”

  Met by this acceptance, rather than the confrontation she sought, Melody subsided into silence for a moment, until her mother demanded her attention again.

  Despite Mr. Vincent absolving her of blame, Jane could not shake the sensation that she should have done something differently. Though she loathed Mr. Buffington, she had no wish to see him dead, nor could she forgive herself for the very real upset felt by Melody and Beth and Miss FitzCameron. Even Lady FitzCameron was touched by this torrid affair, as her favourite nephew’s treachery was revealed.

  Too late to change her course now, Jane’s mind nonetheless filled itself with what-ifs and played the events over and again with different choices.

  When they arrived home, Jane excused herself and went straight to her room. The glamour trees stood where she had left them. Mr. Vincent’s book lay open on the floor. She stood, breathless on the room’s threshold, all the emotion accompanying thoughts of him nearly suffocating her.

  Jane shut the door behind her, closed the book and set it on the shelf. Without undressing, she crawled into bed and shut her eyes, praying for the forgetfulness of sleep.

  Twenty-six

  Solicitations

  During the week that followed, Jane stayed in her room, unwilling to confront the results of her actions, but small touches of the outside world crept in to trouble her attempts to regain her calm as the motives of Captain Livingston became clearer. From Nancy, she heard that his hopes of paying off the gambling debts he had accrued had been dashed when he learned, after his betrothal to Miss FitzCameron, that her estate was nearly bankrupt. His desperation was so great that he had wooed two women at once, planning on wedding whichever had the largest dowry. The neighbourhood gossip had it that he had eluded justice and fled to America.

  From her father, she learned that Mr. Dunkirk had called and asked for her, but what conversation could they have had that was not filled with pain? Nothing would be served by speaking of events past. Her opinion of him could not be repaired, nor was she willing to listen to the empty apologies which his honour would demand.

  Her mother told her that Mr. Vincent had parted from Lady FitzCameron’s company the afternoon of the duel and that none had seen him since. Dr. Smythe visited once, at her mother’s insistence, and told Jane that she was in good health, but needed sunlight. He also said that Mr. Buffington would live. That gave Jane her only measure of relief.

  And then a knock sounded on her door. Jane roused herself enough to say, “Enter.”

  Her astonishment was almost overwhelmed by her fear when Melody slipped through the door. Her sister, eyes dark and haunted, looked as if she wanted to flee, despite her recent arrival. “I will understand if you would rather not see me.”

  “No, please.” Jane stood, and gestured for a chair, too surprized to do more.

  Melody sat at the edge of her seat and held out a small packet of paper. Jane stared at it for some moments before understanding that Melody intended her to take it.

  The packet was so light as to feel almost empty. She folded back the paper to reveal a stem of delicate currants cunningly wrought in glass.

  “I know they aren’t cherries, but I thought you might like them.”

  “Thank you.”

  A silence filled the room between them for some time before either ventured to speak again. Jane considered several of the usual conversational openings, but all seemed too banal to overcome the events that had passed between them. Wetting her lips, she finally said, “I am sorry I followed you.”

  “Oh! Do not apologize! Not to me. Oh, Jane. I thought of nothing this past week but of how I was wronged. But then—la! you will think it so silly!—then I was in the drawing room and was caught by one of your paintings. The one of me at Lyme Regis, do you remember? I cannot tell you what it was that I saw there, but it reminded me how you have always treated me with such devotion, and I realized that all my anger at you was misplaced, because I knew. I must have known that Hen—Captain Livingston was engaged to Miss FitzCameron, and yet I was too foolish to admit it.” She stopped and looked at the handkerchief in her lap, wringing it into a tight cord. “So I have come, though I have no right, to beg your forgiveness for being selfish and awful and—”

  She got no further, for Jane flew across the room and hugged her sister, weeping with her. We shall leave them there as they exchange many heartfelt words, intermingled with tears and laughter.

  That afternoon, Jane let Melody coax her down to the drawing room. Though it
was not as easy as before, the old routine gave her enough measure of comfort that after dinner, when her father said, “Jane, will you favour us with some music?” she was willing to comply.

  Rising from her seat by the fire, Jane said, “What would you have, Papa?”

  From the sofa, her mother said, “Something cheerful. None of these newfangled songs of doom and gloom. A nice gavotte or a rondo would suit. There has been entirely too much moping, if you ask me, which of course none of you have, and yet, I will tell you that it is not good for you to be so much absorbed with yourself. You must think of others and not dwell so much on past injuries.”

  Melody and Jane exchanged glances at this sudden reversal of their mother’s opinions. Melody hid a smile behind the fringe she was making. “Play what you like, Jane.”

  The keyboard felt strange under her fingers. Had only a week passed since she had last played? It seemed like a lifetime. Jane began by sketching idle notes upon the keys, accustoming herself to music once more. She pulled glamour out to match the notes she played, but the dark purples and twilight colours gave too large a hint of the turmoil still buried in her heart.

  Of all the things she did not understand, she did not know why Mr. Vincent had left. It gnawed at her, and the uncertainties shewed in her art.

  Mindful of her mother’s request for something cheerful, Jane began Beethoven’s latest sonata. The ache in her breast played underneath the happy refrain. Jane let her feelings bleed out under the cover of this joyous song and into the glamour, so that as the colours frolicked over the pianoforte, a yearning lurked between them.

  The sound of a carriage rolled up the sweep.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Ellsworth said, peering fretfully at the windows from the sofa.

  Jane continued to play as Melody peeked out, frowning. “I do not recognize the equipage.”

  Moments later, Nancy appeared at the door of the drawing room. Jane let her song end and waited to hear who had come to call. Nancy’s face was red, and she kept looking over her shoulder. “Mr. Ellsworth, there’s a solicitor here who wants a few moments of your time.”

  “A solicitor?” Mr. Ellsworth folded his paper. “Certainly, shew him in.”

  “He would like to see you privately in your study, if he may.” Nancy curtsied, waiting for an answer.

  The family exchanged glances, and Mr. Ellsworth harrumphed. “Well. I’ll see what the fellow has to say.” He tossed his paper on the side table, leaving them to wonder what a solicitor would be doing at Long Parkmead. Their curiosity was further raised when their father barked with laughter upon exiting the drawing room. He shut the door behind himself so they could only discern sounds of great cordiality receding into the distance, until at last the voices vanished into the study.

  At a loss for what to do, Jane began playing again. Her mother pretended to read, and Melody made a few halfhearted adjustments to the thread of her fringe. Jane had barely begun the second movement when her father flung open the doors of the drawing room with such suddenness that she jerked her hands from the keys in surprize.

  He was accompanied by a tall man with a crop of curly brown hair, who carried a leather binder tucked under his arm. “Mr. Sewell, this is my wife, Mrs. Ellsworth, and our daughters Jane and Melody.”

  Mr. Sewell bowed appropriately to each of them, but his eyes lingered on Jane. The hair on the nape of her neck stood quite on end.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Mrs. Ellsworth pressed her hand against her chest. “Lady FitzCameron is suing us for defaming Captain Livingston—I knew it. Jane, this is your fault.”

  Melody stood abruptly. “Leave Jane alone! You know I would have run off with him if she had not stopped me.”

  “Well, I never!” Tilting her small nose up in a sniff, Mrs. Ellsworth dabbed at her eyes with a square of lace. “We did not raise you to speak so to me.”

  Mr. Ellsworth cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, Mr. Sewell has some things to discuss with us. Jane, may I ask you to wait in my study? This will be but a moment.”

  Clammy dread gripped her. “Of course, Papa.” Her eyes stung with suppressed tears as she left the room, berating herself for bringing such trouble on her family.

  Nancy stood in the hall, watching her with wondering eyes. Jane was determined not to crumble here. She entered her father’s study, grateful for the brief sanctuary she would be granted to gather herself.

  Mr. Vincent stood at the window.

  At her startled cry, he spun. “Miss Ellsworth. Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

  In the week since she had last seen him, a remarkable transformation had occurred. His features had lost some of their gauntness and once again had a healthy colour. His cheeks were smoothly shaven; his hair clipped neatly. Every aspect of him spoke of ease, and yet there was a hesitancy in his manner.

  Jane spoke first. “I—I did not know you were here.”

  “Did your father not tell you?”

  She shook her head. “I only saw the solicitor.”

  He grimaced. “I apologize for that. It may not have been necessary, but I wished to take no chances on my errand.”

  “What errand is that?”

  “You may recall that I lack the gift of words.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you finish my book?”

  “Yes.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I shall fetch it for you.”

  Mr. Vincent held his hand out, with a deep entreaty written on his face. “No. No, it is for you. Did you—did you understand it?”

  No longer trusting her legs to support her, Jane sank into the nearest chair. “I think I did.”

  Steepling his fingers together, Mr. Vincent pressed them against his lips and nodded. He studied her, looking for an answer in her form. Then, as if he could not stand the pain of wondering, he turned from her to the globe on her father’s desk. Spinning it idly, he said, “Perhaps then, you understand—no. I will not play at guessing games.” Stopping the globe, he turned back to her. “I have given you no reason . . . and yet. Miss Ellsworth, I have come here tonight to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you—will you say yes?” His voice cracked on the last word.

  Jane opened her mouth, but the joy, where she had expected nothing but fear, stopped her breath with a single sob.

  Mr. Vincent’s face dropped. In that moment of vulnerability, she realized that he was younger than she had taken him for.

  He nodded and stepped back, his mask of gruff distance returning. “Of course. My apologies. I will not trouble you further.”

  “Wait!” Jane stood, realizing that he had mistaken her pause for a refusal. “Yes! Oh, please, yes.”

  Slowly, as if glamour were being stripped away to reveal a true dawn, his face brightened. “Do you mean it?”

  Jane nodded. She reached out, wanting to enfold this gruff bear of a man in her arms and comfort him, to make magic together, and to watch the world grow old with him. He met her halfway, and the last reservations fell away as they embraced.

  Though he denied a skill at words, everything Mr. Vincent said in that tender moment brought Jane unbearable joy. She sighed and pressed her head against his broad chest. He tucked his chin over her head, and they fit together as neatly as a puzzle. “There is one more thing you should know.” His words rumbled and vibrated through her being.

  “Yes?”

  She could feel the tension come back into his frame. “Vincent is not my surname.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?” He held her at arm’s length, all astonishment.

  “Beth told me.”

  He frowned. “What did she say?”

  “That Mr. Dunkirk had investigated you and that Vincent was not your real name. Nothing more.” Jane cocked her head. “Is that why your journal has the initials V. H.?”

  “Indeed. Does that bother you? That I have lied about who I am?”

  “No. Your art tells me everything I need to know.” Her mind went to the glamural in her room.
She itched to shew it to him.

  He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “You should know that Vincent is my given name. My surname is Hamilton; I brought Mr. Sewell to verify that I am who I say so that your father might have no reservations about the match.”

  “It would not matter if he did.”

  “It flatters me that you say so.” Mr. Vinc—No, Mr. Hamilton led her back to her chair and seated her in it. “I changed my name because my family was embarrassed by my artistic interests. I promised them that I would work in anonymity to protect their honour, such that it is. My father is Frederick Hamilton, the Count of Verbury. I am his third son. There is no fear of having to suffer the intricacies of court life, as my brothers are both in good health, but it does mean that we can live in comfort, without having to suffer the pains of an itinerant glamourist’s life.”

  Jane heard only one thing in his explanation. “You will not give up your art to return to them!”

  “I already have.” He kissed her hand. “I found something more important.”

  “No!” Jane stood, and took him by the hand. She could not explain her own thoughts as she ran up the stairs to her room, Vincent close behind her. Jane flung open her door and pushed him through. He stopped at the sight of the glamural.

  He was silent for a long moment.

  She waited, not afraid of his judgment, because she knew well that the glamural was better than anything she had ever attempted, but for him to understand what she meant by shewing it to him. In the lines of the trees there was a surety that she had not known she possessed. The leaves trembled with her as if attuned to the passion she felt for Vincent. A breeze caressed them, and through the glamour she could imagine his touch on the wind.

  “Jane . . .” He trailed off, lost in the forest she had created.

  “You gave me this.” Pressing his hand between her palms, Jane willed him to understand. “It belongs to both of us now, and I will never forgive myself if you give up art. Not for me.”

  Vincent laid his free hand against her cheek. “Promise me that you will always be my muse.”